It's too long, it's too early, it's inconvenient...but some days, nonetheless, I love my commute.
I begin by shutting our cat in the bedroom, sneaking a
bicycle out of a closet and then out the front door, letting the cat out,
and then letting myself out. Don't be too bright, don't be too noisy,
let sleeping girlfriends lie. Out the front gate, stars, cold
air, headlights, deepest blue, pulling my muffler up.
The first half of my journey is the train, in which hopefully I am not too tired and in
which hopefully there is no one wantonly broadcasting smartphone noise. I take the
train that gets me to my destination fifteen minutes early, rather than
five minutes late. I write, usually needing to take a few extra moments
on the train platform at the end of my ride to finish up, hurrying the
last of my dreams out onto paper before they can scuttle away into my
forgetfulness.
The second half of
it takes me along the shore of the bay by bicycle. At this time of year: The
pre-dawn sky is painted a delicate ombre over the hills of the East
Bay, and overhead it is ornamented with moon and morning star. I hear seagulls crying and watch
pelicans fly across the panorama. The water dances in black and silver beneath the Bay Bridge. I take note of the speed of
traffic on the bridge's westbound deck today, as my coworker is meeting her
own commuting fate in her car there. The newer, glassier skyscrapers begin to glisten. I feel
alive, alert, grateful. The world is not yet noisy. I have been at home
in this city for so long.
